Counting Days REMIX
by IndependenceIndividuality
Summary: It's not before.


**Title: **Counting Days (Remix)  
**Author: **Me  
**Summary: **It's not before.  
**Author's Note: **Okay - so I read back over the first 'Counting Days' and realized that, while it had potential, it was crap. So I did it again and it's been sitting on my computer for about six months. Reviews are my crack and rehab is just too expensive.

* * *

On the first day, things are awkward.

He arrives, pats you on the back and - avoiding your eyes - asks how you've been. You lie, and tell him you've been just fine; but it's all right, because you've become quite good at telling people you're fine when you really aren't.

"That's good, that's good."

"You?"

"Same here."

And apparently, he's become quite good at that, too.

There's no conversation after that; the silence is too pressing and there are too many things between you - hurt and want and resentment and something that might be love - too many feelings that swirl and mesh and change until it's just one great mass of everything pulsing dark and heavy between you like the blood pounding in your ears.

His girl friend (not _girlfriend _like you used to be but _girl friend_ like you are now) comes flying into the room, followed closely by her more freckled other half. She throws her arms around his neck and sobs something that sounds like _oh thank god _into his shoulder and you look away because it isn't fair that she's allowed to do that and you aren't.

You dry swallow the ache like a large pill and turn your head the next time he looks at you.

-

On the second day, it's almost as though nothing ever changed.

You scrimmage in the old apple orchard and you're seeker on the opposing team. You laugh and smile, albeit never in his direction and even though you're supposed to be his competition you never really fly close enough but if you close your eyes and try _really hard, _it's almost like before.

It's almost like before, except it isn't.

It isn't before and it can never be again because Dumbledore is dead and your mother is afraid like you've never seen her and your dad looks at you like he might never get to again and you can almost see what Tom left you of your childhood fading away into nothing and it will _never_ be the same.

So you just let him catch the fucking snitch and touch down before all the forced normalcy and tight smiles make you lose it entirely.

"Good game," he says after, to the scar on your collarbone - the one you got when you were seven, climbing trees with Ron. You wailed like a baby and he said "I've got you." and carried you home and you had never felt more protected.

This is nothing like that.

"Yeah. You too," you say, and look him straight in the eye.

-

On the third day, you hardly see him at all.

He disappears with your brother and their female third part just after breakfast and nobody asks where they've gone. They all know better. It's enough already to not know where they are without having to say it out loud.

Except her.

"Whair have your leetle friends gone?" She asks perfectly as she stands perfectly atop a wooden stool and your mother raises the perfect hem of her perfect wedding gown.

When you swallow tightly and ask her exactly why you should know, she just tosses her perfect hair and gives you that _look._

You slap her so hard, her perfect teeth clack.

-

On the fourth day, he almost - almost breaks you.

You were washing dishes, because there is always, always a sink full of dishes in your house and you turned to grab a rag to dry them with and he was just _looking _at you. Just standing there and looking like he didn't have anything better to do: no world to save, no evil lord to vanquish, no secrets to keep. Just a normal seventeen year old boy looking at a girl.

He looked so . . . lost just then. Like he really needed you to just pull him close and kiss his wounds and tell him everything would be just fine, that you understood and it was all alright.

But it wasn't and you didn't and he _did _have a world to save - no time for pretty lies.

So you just grabbed the rag, turned your back on him, and finished drying the dishes.

-

On the fifth day, he hurts you.

Your mother banishes you to the attic with instructions to "clear it up, up there", muttering under her breath about "teenage bag of nerves, out of my hair" and you go, because you'd rather be doing just about anything besides sitting between your mother and _her_ while they pour over last minute details and _stare _at you like that from under their lashes.

When you pause beside your brother's open bedroom door to reach up and pull down the trap, the hushed whispers that were evident as you approached are immediately silenced.

You glance over to where he's sitting with his back against the chest of drawers and he stares at you for a long, drawn-out moment (and you see something so . . . hate/love . . . so Tom in his eyes and bile rises in your throat) before he replies to your brother's questioning look with "We'll finish this conversation later - you know -" he nods toward you "untrustworthy ears and all."

The girl's mouth falls open in shock and she shoots you an apologetic look as she swings the door shut, but you hear her murmur a spell anyway and all you hear a moment later is a low buzz.

You bolt for the bathroom. Even once your stomach is empty, you dry heave for five minutes.

-

On the sixth day, it all comes apart.

You're still not exactly sure how it happened.

You remember that your dress was too tight, uncomfortable. You remember the music, how it made you feel better for a little while and you remember dancing. You remember spinning – spinning like you could go fast enough to take off from the ground and soar away and then –

"Dance with me."

You remember that, how his voice sounded just then. You remember stopping, how you almost fell. You remember how his hands were there to catch you and how he pulled you up against him like he had every right in the world. You remember wanting to stop him. You remember not wanting to stop him.

"How is it that you make me like this?"

You don't remember who said that – maybe it was him. Probably you.

You remember his lips against your ear, whispering, "I'm so sorry, Ginny."

You remember wanting to tell him that you forgave him, even though you weren't sure that you did, and you remember that the words wouldn't come. You remember looking around and seeing that you were outside your bedroom door and not remembering how you got there.

"How is it that you make me like this?"

You know that time that it was you. You remember your voice cracking and how small you felt just then; how handsome he looked, how everything besides him felt a little blurred around the edges.

You remember opening the door and how he almost pushed you inside. You don't remember shutting the door, but you remember how cold it was when he pressed you against it a second later.

This is the part you remember best. His kisses, his hands and how nice they felt, his words and how they seemed to crash into you instead of wash over you. You remember how good it felt to get out of the dress, how nice he looked with his shirt half open. You remember how he fell to his knees, how exposed you felt with his cheek pressed against your bare stomach.

You remember not knowing what to feel when you reached down and his face was wet. You might have run your fingers through his hair, that might have been what made him look up - you don't remember.

You remember remembering his face that day in the kitchen and you remember thinking that that was how he looked just then.

"I'm scared, Ginny."

You remember wiping a tear away with your thumb, how you cupped his face with your hand and how he leaned into it, how he looked so much like a little boy just then that for a moment you felt guilty that you were standing there in front of him in your underwear.

"I'm sorry."

You remember wanting to say that you were sorry, too, and how he didn't give you time.

"And I . . . I think I love you, and I can't . . . I just can't do this to you."

You remember not understanding. You remember sliding down the door to sit beside him, how he leaned into you and kissed you so gently you almost cried.

"It has to be me."

You remember his lips were still against yours when he said it and you remember how your heart stopped. You remember how quickly he kissed you again, harder than before and then let his head fall into the crook of your neck. You remember, even as he spoke, how he kept his lips pressed against you.

"It has to be me, and I can't do this to you. I – I can't promise you anything when I might never come back and I – "

You remember grabbing him, pulling him on top of you. You remember how he fell into you, clutched you like a drowning man at a life raft. You remember kissing him hard and fast and feeling tears and not knowing who's they were. You remember realizing who's they were, and then trying to forget.

You remember how he looked at you, long and searching, and you remember nodding. You remember the cold wooden floor beneath you and his warm, moving body above you. You remember pain – sharp, quick, and fleeting.

You remember your name, over and over and over, and how he made it sound like salvation, like a prayer.

You remember wanting to tell him that you loved him and knowing it would never be enough.

-

On the seventh day, it ends. On the seventh day, it starts again.

You wake to feel him moving above you, over you, around you. You hear him dressing and want to open your eyes, but you don't and don't know why. You feel him lean over you and brush back your hair, you feel his eyes rove your face. You feel his breath on your cheek, against your ear:

"Don't wait for me."

He kisses the scar on your collarbone, the one you got when you were seven, climbing trees with Ron. You wailed like a baby, and he said "I've got you." and carried you home and you had never felt more protected.

This is nothing like that.

By the time you gather the courage to open your eyes, he's gone.

* * *

To anyone who's ever left or had to leave. In the broadest terms.


End file.
